


Gallifrey Prompt Fic

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 01:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20574341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: Short things compiled from my inbox.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "Are we really doing this? Are we really slow-dancing?" + Romana/Brax.

Romana should be working. This  _ gathering, _ she’s keenly aware, is not a party so much as peace talks hidden under a veritable mountain of canapés and drink and the high fashion of half a dozen worlds, and she needs to have all her wits about her. At the very least, her mind should be occupied with rehearsing the customs and concerns of her fellow guests, even if she can’t actually presently talk to the more amiable among them. 

Unfortunately, as seems to be his sole aspiration at the moment, Braxiatel has made that impossible. 

He makes a quiet noise of discontent, as the slip of her attention causes her to step on his foot. 

“My lady,” he says graciously. “I’m sure you know that my opinion of your diplomatic skills is high. But might I suggest you take a span or two to touch up on this particular skill, for next time?”

“Oh, pardon me, Brax,” she mutters under her breath, fighting to keep a pleasant look on her face. “I’ve been a little busy reading up on the state of the Phaidonian economy.”

“A noble pursuit,” he allows. He gives her a subtle nudge, indicating that she’s about to move in the wrong direction, and she corrects herself. “I would appreciate it if my shoes were afforded the same caution.”

She gives him a hard stare, though it’s difficult while standing so close. He’s really much too tall for his own good. “Your shoes are hardly likely to cause an intergalactic war,” she points out.

He shrugs. “I’m certain they could, if I tried hard enough. Look out,” he says quietly, and lifts his arm to spin her slowly in time with the music. 

She’s glad for the chance to survey the room, get her bearings, but they abandon her again rather quickly once she’s back in his arms. She catches a glimpse of two others from the Time Lord delegation: Narvin, watching from the shadow of a large stone pillar and clearly fighting back a smirk, and next to him a member of the Chancellery Guard, who seems to be looking on in thinly-veiled embarrassment.

Romana gives a small, plaintive groan. “Are we really doing this?” she asks desperately. “Are we  _ really _ slow dancing? In front of  _ people _ ?”

She almost wishes Brax would admit to it being some elaborate simulation designed to trick her into dancing with him, but for once, it appears, he’s done no such thing. She’ll never live this down. 

“It’s only polite,” he says smoothly. “Keeping up appearances; isn’t that the point of this whole masquerade?”

“The point is negotiation,” she protests, keeping her voice low so only he can hear. “Surely there’s no need for me to make a fool of myself in front of the galactic powers to accomplish that?”

“Oh, but Romana,” he murmurs, sounding rather hurt, his head bowed so he speaks almost into her hair—a gesture altogether too intimate for any setting, let alone a diplomatic event. “You should know you couldn’t make a fool of yourself if you tried. You are… exquisite.”

His voice nearly fails under the weight of his sincerity, and she swallows, something fluttering between her hearts;  _ like a dying fish, _ she decides. If she wasn’t blushing before, she’s certain she is now. 

Rassilon, she hates when he does that. 

“Yes, well, you look ridiculous,” she says, stubbornly clinging to any semblance of dignity. “I don’t know why I let you wear a suit to these things.”

He chuckles, a quiet expression that she doesn’t so much hear as feel in the shaking of his shoulders. “What happened to party solidarity?” he asks, feigning indignation. 

Despite the injustice she’s been subjected to, Romana can’t help but feel a little guilty; he doesn’t, after all, look ridiculous. Quite the opposite, actually. Draping robes don’t flatter him nearly as well, though she isn’t going to  _ tell _ him that. 

She sighs heavily. “You smell nice,” she mumbles, admitting defeat. 

She doesn’t look up, and he doesn’t give any audible answer, but she can sense him looking down at her with that disgustingly fond look he likes to put on in her presence. “Brax,” she says warningly, though it’s somewhat softened by the smile tugging inexorably at the corners of her lips. 

“Apologies, my lady,” he says, a matching warmth in his own voice. “How indecent of me.”

“Quite,” she mutters. But when he spins her again and brings her back closer than before, she can’t find it in her to object. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "your bed after travelling" + Narvin/Leela. Post-Season 6.

“It does not smell right anymore.”

Leela’s hushed voice rouses him from his thoughts, and he opens his eyes slowly, unobtrusively; after so much of the opposite he’s loath to disturb the delicate quietude they’ve found, even cold and barren as it may feel. She’s already watching him—has been for a while, he figures. He can just pick out her features, silhouetted as she is by the rusty light, pouring in from the window at her back. Though she retains the look of subtle vigilance that he’s come to expect from her, she looks as dead-tired as he feels. 

“You’ve grown unaccustomed to it,” he says, low and quiet. It seems wrong to speak, even dangerous, as though all of Gallifrey is waiting on tenterhooks and only by remaining still and silent can he avoid tipping the balance back into chaos. “It’s been a long time.”

Leela’s eyes flick around his room, as much of it as she can see without moving. Her body is tense, the fingers of one hand curled into the blankets; he’s never been a natural when it comes to instinct, but he’s certain that for once she shares his awareness of the cosmic knife’s edge they stand on. He wonders what would happen, if one of them were to take the leap and shatter the silence. Would the mechanical screeches stop echoing in his mind? Or would he only feel guilty for absolving himself of his vigil? 

“The air is stale,” she murmurs. “I did not notice, at the time, but the false Capitol did not smell stale. It smelled of the dust blown in from the ruins, and the mountains beyond, and… and energy.”

“Ozone,” he supplies. “Formed with the energy thrown off by the conflicting temporal elements.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her lips, the look she gets when he starts off on a tangent that’s a bit too technical for her to follow. He still hasn’t decided whether it’s mocking or fond. Somewhat to his disappointment, it fades quickly, and she glances around his quarters again. 

It pains him. After all the time and effort they’ve poured into this, all the sacrifices they’ve made to get back here and to cure their world of the Free Time virus, they should be celebrating their return. Leela should be dragging them out into the plains, making him and Romana stand in the long grass and wince away from the buzzing insects as she runs through the fields, whooping and laughing with glee. He should be thrilled as well, albeit in a quieter way; this is the world he’s fought for, the one place in all the universes he’s seen that he could possibly call home, but it evokes none of the feelings of rightness and belonging he always thought it would. Instead they’re huddled in his bed like they’re waiting for the universe to come crashing down on top of them. He doesn’t trust fate to do him any favours, but the unfairness of it still stings. 

“Narvin,” Leela says softly. She’s watching him again—watching, not just looking, her face full of quiet intent—and it strikes him that he would very much like to be in her place, to see the sinking suns paint her skin umber and light her eyes up gold. The thought comforts him; it’s more familiar to him than anything else on Gallifrey, at the moment. 

“Leela,” he says, by way of a reply. 

She regards him for a moment longer, her expression flickering subtly as if she’s debating something with herself. Then, ever so slowly, only just daring to break their prey-like stillness, she rises up on her elbows and pulls herself closer to him. Hovering over him, she rests a hand on his arm and presses a gentle, lingering kiss to his temple. His eyes flutter closed, his breath catching in his throat as she kisses his cheek, and the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, just once, before she settles down beside him with her head on his pillow. She brushes her fingers through his hair, her hand coming to cup the back of his neck, her thumb stroking his cheek. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

At that, he opens his eyes. He draws a sharp breath at the look on her face, open and honest and, funnily enough, afraid. 

“I didn’t do anything,” he says. “I- I shouldn’t-”

She shushes him, a hint of an amused smile on her face. “You were brave, Narvin. You saved me. You did what you thought had to be done to save Romana. And I am glad.”

He opens his mouth, desperate to tell her that she has no idea  _ what _ he’s done, and nor does he, or anyone else in the universe. That he might’ve signed her death warrant, for all he knows, that he might yet break the Web of Time itself, and that bravery had never once factored into the equation. But the words won’t quite form themselves, and before he can muster a protest she’s tugging his arm over her and shifting closer still, her head tucked against his chest, and he’s clinging to her—and there, he realizes with a short, incredulous laugh, is the  _ rightness _ he’s been looking for. And then he’s fighting to breathe against the lump in his throat, and wondering how he’ll ever bear it if this reclaimed world of his crumbles around him. 

At least, he supposes, as he breathes in the scent of rock dust still clinging to her and watches the sunsets turn her auburn hair to bronze, at least he can be sure now: he won’t let it go without a fight. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "a person's weight as they lie on top of you" + Narvin/Romana.

Narvin doesn’t register her presence until both of the datapads he’s studying are tipped over out of his hands, clattering face-down on his desk. 

He makes a noise a bit too close to a yelp for his own comfort, nearly leaping out of his chair at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts. When he looks up, hearts in his throat, he finds Romana standing across from him, her jaw set and one eyebrow raised in a sour expression. 

“Wh- what… what’d you do that for?” he asks indignantly, his voice pitching high. 

“Narvin,” she says, as if he’s somehow managed to test her patience in the two seconds she’s been in the room, “it is nearly dawn.”

He blinks. “Is it?” He casts a glance towards the window at his back. There is indeed, he’s surprised to see, a slight glow on the horizon, and his hearts sink; he supposes his chance to get a span or two of rest has passed. He turns back to Romana, only squinting a little bit to stop her looking blurry, and suddenly becomes aware of how much his eyes are stinging. With a quiet groan he rubs his hand over his face and resigns himself to it, reaching to reclaim one of his datapads. 

Romana pins it under her hand. “Narvin,” she warns. 

“I need that!” he exclaims.

“I told you to go rest,” she says, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose like he’s giving her a headache. “You think I sent you home just so you could keep working?”

“I am  _ busy _ ,” he protests, albeit weakly. “Do you know how many reports I have to write? And there are orders of magnitude more to read and-”

“I am well aware of that,” she sighs. “May I remind you,  _ Deputy _ Coordinator, that I gave them to you?”

He chooses to ignore the dig at his rank, which is really something of a low blow in his opinion. “Well then,” he says, “you’ll surely understand that I cannot just sleep until I’ve finished!”

“Narvin,” she grits out. 

“Do you have to do that?” he asks. “My name isn’t actually an insult, you know.”

Romana heaves a great sigh, then fixes him with a stern glare. “We have discussed this,” she begins, interrupted by his groan. “What you cannot do is stay awake for days at a time, refusing to take even a few spans’ rest!”

“It hasn’t been-”

“Yes, it has. You think I haven’t been paying attention? How am I supposed to trust you with assignments if I know you’re only going to use it as an excuse not to take care of yourself?”

“That’s a bit rich, coming from you,” he retorts. 

“Oh?” She raises one eyebrow, feigning innocence. “And remind me, what exactly did you insist I do two nights ago?”

He sags in his chair, cursing himself for his lack of forethought. “Go home and sleep,” he mumbles. 

“And did I do it?”

“Yes. But-”

“No, no, this is not a debate.” Her voice takes on the soft, pleading tone that he has difficulty resisting at the best of times, let alone half-asleep. “Get some rest. A span or two, at the least. Despite what you might think, Gallifrey will still be here in the morning. What use are you to anyone like this?”

“I am…” He cuts himself off with a yawn, and feels his cheeks heat. “Functioning perfectly well, thank you,” he finishes, somewhat sheepish. 

She gives him a look that’s almost pitying. Seemingly coming to a decision, she walks round his desk and spins his chair to face her. By the time his brain catches up with the movement—though he is absolutely fit to continue working, he’s admittedly finding it a bit difficult to think on his feet—she’s already climbing into his lap, tucking her legs up and wrapping her arms around his neck. 

With a small, despairing noise, Narvin attempts to lean forward to grab his datapad, unsuccessfully. “Romana,” he implores. 

She rests her forehead on his shoulder. “I categorically forbid you from reading another word until you’ve slept past second sunrise,” she says. “And if I have to physically restrain you to make that happen, then I will.”

He tries again, but his strength seems to have abandoned him. He gives up, submitting to her assault. And that, he quickly discovers, is a mistake; her weight on top of him is terribly relaxing, grounding him in the same way as lying under a heavy blanket, and she’s much warmer than the rest of the room, and she’s begun absently playing with his hair. His exhaustion grows exponentially by the nanospan until he can’t help but let his eyes slip closed, practically going limp beneath her as he starts to doze off. 

It’s not comfortable by any means, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s very nearly asleep when she shifts, sitting up to kiss his forehead and run her fingers through his hair, gently bringing him back to wakefulness. 

“Come on,” she whispers. “You can’t sleep at your desk.”

He grumbles an incoherent protest, but allows her to stand and pull him up, only stumbling a bit before he manages to get his bearings. “Do it all the time,” he mumbles, as she tugs him towards his bed. 

“Yes, well, you are a walking disgrace to good health.”

He collapses without bothering to change out of his robes, and Romana climbs in beside him and tugs the blankets over them both. She reclaims her position lying mostly on top of him, resting her head on his chest and tangling their legs together. He sighs, silently lamenting his abandoned reports, and the ease with which she’s able to demolish his work ethic. 

“Then you’re a hypocrite,” he replies, opening his eyes just enough to see her peering up at him. 

She scoffs, but a smile tugs at the corners of her lips, quickly hidden as she settles her head back down. “Well, that’s what you’re here for,” she points out. 

He gives a quiet huff of laughter, and wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer. “Quite right.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "being so close that you can feel your lips brush when you whisper" + Narvin/Brax. Post-Enemy Lines.

“So. You’re back, then.”

A languid smile spreads across Brax’s face as he turns away from his dust-covered bookshelf. “Now, Narvin,” he says, playfully chiding, “is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Narvin is standing in his doorway, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised sardonically and his lips pressed into a disapproving line. At Brax’s teasing his expression morphs into a dry glare, and he meanders further into the long-empty flat, letting the door close behind him. 

“Are we friends? I hadn’t realized.” He casts a dispassionate look around the room; it’s meant to appear judgmental, Brax knows, but he’s searching. 

Brax can’t exactly blame him. He’s skittish at the best of times, and likely still smarting from his demotion and Brax’s abrupt reappearance. No doubt he would love to comb the flat for any clue as to how he’s found his way back to Gallifrey, and what he’s been up to in the meantime. He suspects he’ll find himself party to several covert interrogation sessions in the near future. Unfortunately, he can’t indulge Narvin’s curiosity. He’s simply too fun to play with. 

“Oh dear,” says Brax, adopting a concerned expression as he wanders up to the newly styled deputy coordinator. “You don’t mean to tell me that I wasn’t missed, surely.”

“Not at all,” he says easily. “We moped for at least three microspans. Possibly four.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” 

Narvin’s gaze follows him as he circles around beside him, then behind, coming to rest leaning back against the door frame, ankles crossed, amusement warming his chest as he watches Narvin struggle to retain his composure with Brax out of his line of sight. He only lasts a moment before turning to face Brax again and following, annoyance sparking in his eyes. 

“I suppose I’ll have to mope a while longer, now,” he says irritably, coming to stand in front of Brax and planting his feet. “I didn’t savour your time away nearly enough.”

Brax chuckles. “I know you’re all worked up, Narvin, but do please try to recall that I sacrificed myself for you.”

Drawing himself up indignantly, Narvin opens his mouth to retort and clearly thinks better of it— _ I am not  _ worked up,  _ for your information _ , Brax imagines him spluttering, and his smile grows wider. Narvin’s been doing a lot of that lately, the poor thing. It’s terribly endearing. 

“Did you indeed?” he says instead, looking Brax up and down. It doesn’t come close to accomplishing what he intended, flustered as he is, but Brax lets him have it. “You  _ are _ here, after all. Back to your old, bothersome self.”

“Oh, yes.” Brax eases himself off of the wall and takes a casual step forward—the only step separating the two of them, incidentally. Narvin lifts his chin proudly, holding his gaze, but doesn’t move an inch. The realization that the Narvin he knew back on the Axis would’ve been long gone by now brings an odd twinge of pride to his hearts; why, he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to consider, so he rests his hands on Narvin’s waist and guides him closer into something only vaguely resembling an embrace. Narvin’s eyes narrow further, but he doesn’t hesitate a nanospan to slip his arms around Brax in return. 

“Is it so hard to admit you missed me?” murmurs Brax. He hardly has to lean any closer to brush his lips against Narvin’s forehead, then his temple, then his cheek; it might as well be an accident, really. 

Narvin shivers at the contact, despite himself. “I barely noticed you were gone,” he lies. 

Brax gives a quiet laugh, and leans down for a kiss, but Narvin interrupts.

“I  _ will _ find out what you’re doing here, you know,” he says. It’s not exactly a threat, but it’s about as near to one as he can get, with his hands gripping Brax’s jacket and their lips close enough to brush as he speaks. And if Brax’s hearts flutter a little at the sensation, well, surely it’s out of distress. 

“I’m certain you will do your very best,” he whispers, “my dearest Coordinator.”

Narvin’s huff of annoyance ghosts across his lips. Fed up at last with the teasing, he extracts himself from Brax and strides over to the door, jabbing at the controls to open it. 

“Oh, come now,” says Brax, pouting. “You’re really going to leave without a proper hello?”

Narvin stops in the doorway. He vacillates for a moment, his glare slipping away, and this proves his undoing; Brax is delighted when he marches back, tugs him closer by the tie and rises up on his tip-toes to give him a quick kiss. Then he hurries off again, too slow to hide the pink tinge of his cheeks. 

Brax smirks. “I missed you too,” he calls into the hallway, careless of the pair of Cardinals passing by. 

Narvin’s embarrassed grumbling alone is worth coming back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com)!


End file.
